


One more light

by Trash



Category: Bastille (Band)
Genre: Attempted Suicide, Depression, M/M, Mental Health problems, this is not a happy fic okay?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:20:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22792393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: If a tree falls in the forest and nobody is around to hear it, does it make a sound?
Relationships: Kyle Simmons/Dan Smith
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	One more light

The sky is clear, but Kyle can’t see the stars for the light pollution. Still, the moon is full and reflects on the water. He sits down on the damp sand to look at it. He is overwhelmed by the urge to message Dan.

He takes a photo of the moon, the lights, and goes to send it. But the photo is blurry so he doesn’t.

***

They’re watching the news and a famous TV presenter has been found dead in her flat. Police are not calling the death suspicious, the news reader says. And Kyle says, “Killed herself, then.”

“Mmm,” Dan murmurs in agreement. “I wish I was more surprised.”

“Wonder how she did it.”

“Jesus, Kyle.”

“What? I will not be the only person thinking about it. You can’t tell me that wasn’t your first thought.”

“It wasn’t,” Dan says. “I actually wondered if she left a note.”

“How is that any better than wanting to know how she did it?”

“I didn’t say it was.”

The news story changes to something about Brexit and Dan changes channel, changes channel, changes channel, until he finds a Come Dine With Me marathon and settles back onto the sofa. 

The first host is serving dessert when Kyle asks, “How would you do it?”

Dan frowns, turns to him. “What? Crème brûlée?”

“No, idiot. Kill yourself.”

“I…haven’t given that much thought,” Dan says, lying through his teeth.

Kyle narrows his eyes. “Calling bullshit on that one.”

“Okay, fine. It’s…I haven’t really thought of a specific way. But I know what I wouldn’t do.” He holds up his hand and starts counting on his fingers, “Nothing that I could recover from; nothing that impacts someone else, like jumping into traffic or under a train; nothing that would mean someone had to discover my body.”

“What does that leave?”

Dan shrugs. “Jump off a bridge? Walk into the Thames? I heard there’s millions of bodies in the Thames.”

Kyle shivers. “Why wouldn’t you want anyone to find your body?”

“That person would be scarred for life. Plus, you probably shit yourself or something too.”

“Possibly.”

“What about you?”

“Haven’t thought about it, mate. I’m not as morbid as you.”

Dan laughs and punches him in the arm. It’s a lie and they both know it, but Dan is kind enough not to say anything else. 

The crème brûlée is terrible.

***

Kyle can’t stop thinking about it. Lies awake at night wondering if he’s a terrible person for wanting someone to find his body when he does it. Like yeah, sure, nobody wants to find their boyfriend’s bloated corpse but he also doesn’t like the idea of lying somewhere, ten days dead and undiscovered. Call him selfish.

And he knows it should care more about the impact his suicide might have on other people, but he also thinks it would be a good shout to go under a Tube train. Knowing Dan, his real issue with that was probably more about the delays it would cause rather than the trauma for everyone who sees it.

When he falls asleep he dreams of deep waters with strong currents.

***

He goes to work. Carries on as normal. Tries to suppress the intrusive thoughts that come to him whenever he stands on a crowded platform waiting for his train, when he crosses a busy road, when he walks over a bridge, when he takes his antidepressants. Jump, step out, fall, take them all. See what happens. Maybe it’ll be better. Maybe someone will come to your rescue and you’ll be saved, you’ll be so grateful for your life that your depression will vanish. Or maybe they won’t, and it won’t matter.

Kyle sits on the tube and tries to imagine being dead. The nothingness of it. He tries to mediate, the way Dan taught him. Tries to completely empty his mind. But he can’t, he can’t, he can’t, and suddenly he’s suffocating under the weight of his winter coat and he gets up, dives off the train when it stops at the next station. He climbs the steps to the ticket hall, breathing as calmly as he can, and calls his boss as soon as he has signal.

Walks home. It takes over an hour. And when Dan gets home that evening Kyle doesn’t tell him. 

***

The sky is clear. And Kyle thought it would be easier than this.

He stands up and edges toward the water until the Thames laps at his feet, soaking his shoes. He glances around, making sure nobody is watching. Last thing he wants is some good samaritan type trying to talk him out of it.

You’ve got everything to live for, they’ll say. Tomorrow is a new day, they’ll tell him. As near as he can tell it’s all the same. Random events nobody has any control over, culminating in death. And it’s hard, but nobody says it. And Kyle is tired, so tired. He’s tried to articulate his feelings. To Dan, to therapists, to helplines. But nobody seems to really grasp it. The weight of accepting that your life means nothing. You’re not going to leave a mark on the world outside of your little bubble. You’re not going to create or invent something that changes the world. You’re going to live your life, your nine to five, you’re going to get old, and you’re going to die. And then the people in your bubble will die, and your memory will fade. And if you’re not survived by children was it even worth it?

If a tree falls in a forest and nobody’s around to hear it, does it make a sound?

If you die childless, without any real success in your life, did you even exist?

Is he even alive?

He takes another step, wades out until he is thigh deep. The water is breathtakingly cold, soaks his jeans to his waist. If he goes much deeper there’ll be currents waiting to sweep his feet from under him. He’ll be helpless. And he thinks, what’s new?

Then there’s a voice behind him going, “Kyle. Come back, Kyle. Come here.”

He turns around. It’s harder than he expects. The river bed is soft beneath his feet and he stumbles, ends up wet up to his shoulders. He should have taken his coat off, he realises, it’s heavy as fuck now that it’s wet. And there’s Dan, standing on the shore. 

“Moon’s cool,” Kyle shouts to him, over the rush of the Thames.

Dan looks at it, then back at him. “Yeah, it is. Where do you think it goes during the day?”

“Dunno. Asleep?” Kyle struggles to stay standing, his feet sinking into the silt.

“What are you playing at?” Dan asks. He’s calmer than Kyle has ever seen him.

He shrugs. “Wanted to see if I could do it,” he says, “wanted to see if I was serious.”

“And?”

And he’s scared. He’s so scared. He’s scared of walking further from the shore. He’s scared of walking back toward Dan. He rubs a hand over his face and looks up at the sky. “I don’t want to die,” he says. “I don’t think. I just. I want it to stop.”

Dan is in the water now, up to his ankles. His Converse will be ruined. “Want what to stop?”

“Everything, really. How did you find me?”

“That app. You know. The stalker one that you hate but won’t delete for whatever reason.”

“I like to see if you’re lying about where you go to lunch,” Kyle says. “You never do.”

Dan laughs. “Nope. Same thing, every day. Ham and cheese sandwich from that shop underneath the office. I am a lazy creature of habit. There’s not much I’m sure of, but that I know exactly what I’ll have for lunch. I know there’ll be a queue because I’m too greedy to wait until later in the afternoon to eat. I know Dave behind the counter will ask if it’s the usual, and make it without speaking to me. Shelly, on the till, she’ll ring it up and take my money and smile. Then I’ll go back to my desk and eat it, and my colleagues will take the piss out of me for being so fucking predictable. 

“Then I’ll come home to my boyfriend. You. I’ll come home and you’ll be there already, or you won’t be far behind me. And if you’re already there you’ll have changed out of your office clothes and into those horrific jogging pants and that cat t-shirt. Or, you know, something similar if you decide to wash that particular outfit. You’ll be there. And we’ll complain about mundane shit, you know? Tube delays. That one guy in your office who has coffee breath and no understanding of personal space.”

Dan takes another step and stumbles, catches himself. “There’s so much I don’t understand, so many things that fuck me up on a day to day basis. Like, if there’s actually a God why is He happy for children to die from cancer? Why is the plural of ‘moose’ not ‘meese’? But what I do know is you. I know your good bits, your bad bits. I know the dark bits you try to hide from yourself. I know the bits of you that you don’t like. And I’m not trying to guilt trip you, here, Kyle, okay? If this is what is right for you then I’ll sit on the sand. I’ll call the lifeguard once I know it’s too late. But I know for sure I can’t do this without you. I don’t want to.”

Kyle feels hollowed out. And for the first time in a while he starts to cry. Ugly, body-wracking sobs. And in the shallows Dan is holding his hand out. After all of this. After everything. So he picks his way carefully to the shore, still crying. He has a snot bubble but doesn’t give a solitary shit. He collapses into Dan’s arms. the pair of them falling into the shallow water. And Dan holds him tight, holds him for dear life. Like a buoyancy aid.

Kyle sobs and sobs until his lungs burn. “I’m sorry,” he manages, “I’m sorry.”

And Dan says, “It’s okay, it’s okay,” and rocks him gently.

And maybe it will be.

Maybe.


End file.
